


Not Holmes' Usual Experiments

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Healthy Communication, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lots of Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex, Smut, and THAT'S not the dub-con, and... other things, don't show this one to your grandma okay?, i mean they fuck on cocaine, i wrote my dissertation on how sherlock is asexual, i!! am asexual!!!, my god is there a lot of sex, they do use safe words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: Five times Holmes and Watson experiment in the bedroom department with various states of success and the one time it just goes really, really wrong. Thank God Holmes had the foresight to establish a safe word.For the prompt: kink negotiation in an era without the language to even describe homosexuality? especially since I’ve yet to see a couple in fanfic actually use a safe word.





	Not Holmes' Usual Experiments

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first smut/pwp I have ever written and I am really, really sorry.
> 
> history lesson for y'all: holywell street was a real thing and people sold all SORTS of dirty erotica, no questions asked. see here! https://publicdomainreview.org/2016/06/29/the-secret-history-of-holywell-street-home-to-victorian-londons-dirty-book-trade/

One: 

For all his fellow-lodger was without a doubt one of the most remarkable of God’s creatures, he quite often inspired such exasperation within Watson that it was a deuced struggle not to express.

“Watson! You fool, you thrice-damned oaf!”

All this, he had merely suggested the man go to bed. It had been a long case and longer since his companion had slept and there was surely no more pertinent of a suggestion for a doctor to make when he was drawn from his own toilette downstairs to find the other was restlessly pacing the sitting room, wan with nervous exhaustion.

“From the way you go on Holmes, Mrs Hudson would be forgiven for thinking I’d attempted to quarrel you to euthanasia.”

“As good as!” he ran a hand through his hair, striking the mantelpiece with the other in the exact same spot his cocaine had been before their esteemed landlady had confiscated his Morocco case. The actions, in combination with his worn face, made him look quite the mad man. _My mad man_ , the thought came to mind quite unbidden, accompanied by a feeling of the utmost tenderness for his friend. He would blame that and exhaustion for all that occurred afterwards. “As good as- to suggest such-“

“I suggested you get some sleep, you idiotic, strung-out fool. All you have ingested for the duration of the week past is tea and cocaine. You do your body no good, which- for all you are the smartest man alive- I believe truly you sometimes do deliberately, and I refuse to be accused of heresy for reminding you of the mortal obligations you face the same as any other man!”

Unfortunately, the calm tone in which he spoke did not lessen Homes’ fury. Those cold grey eyes widened near-comically, his whole form tensed and he seemed to grow- indeed, expand from the shoulders and loom upwards with the indignation he felt, all writ clear to see to even the most dense of Scotland Yard and he turned so as to better face hi in order to pour forth his vitriol and came to a stop upon realising Watson had also risen and crossed the hearth to stand mere inches from him. The tempest he had begun in voracious words belying his rumpled state sputtered and died on his lips, to be so concluded with a weak, “Watson- what in the devil- _what_ -“ as he deduced, eyes flicking over every inch of him.

Watson sighed, “Holmes? Shut up” and kissed him soundly.

It was never going to be a kiss of great wonder- it lacked the necessary preamble, a burning heat settled over them within seconds rendering them rather _too_ hot, they were both exhausted from the case and still picking mud of Cheapside from under their fingernails. Holmes broke off the kiss almost immediately. Yet, for all this, it had not escaped Watson’s noticed that the man had kissed _back._

“I don’t...” Holmes stuttered; it was the first time in Watson’s memory he had ever been so outwardly unsure of himself and he treasured it the same as he did the man’s genius. When it became apparent his friend wouldn’t continue, he reached up and grasped his shoulders, squeezing lightly in what he hoped Holmes did not take as pity. “What is it?”

Being in such close proximity to the hearth, he could feel the heat of the fire even though it had died down some time ago, but it was insubstantial compared to the warmth he felt wherever he touched Holmes. His own voice cut through the fretfulness and brought him back to himself with a steely determination fixed onto his face. When he stood up straighter, he nearly dislodged and removed the contact between them entirely. Watson felt his heart begin to sink, _did I deduce wrong?_ He could only hope and pray if that were the case Holmes would be so kind enough as to allow him to collect his things together before disowning him from Baker Street forever.

“Should we carry on down this path, Watson, I do not want it to be a singular occurrence.”

And for the third time within the last five minutes, Watson felt his hopes turn again. He smiled. “Of course not, my dear Sherlock, of course not. May I kiss you again?”

He answered with a kiss Watson returned with zeal.

It was some time before it ended, now they had established the both of them on the same page, but end it had to given their sorry states. “Watson,” though the kiss had ended, Holmes seemed equally unwilling to part and so did not move back at all when he began to speak. This had the consequence that he spoke directly against his skin as his lips and eyes roamed to observe as much as possible. Being locked under that analytical gaze, being its sole subject... Watson felt a shiver go through him. “You began this with the intention of buggering until I would finally fall prey to sleep. Do you intend to make good on that promise?”

It was all Watson could do not to moan. His hands, which had been so happy grasping those slim shoulders now flattened on the man’s chest and pushed him backwards towards Holmes’ bedroom. “Take your clothes off,” he whispered, rewarded as his eyes darkened to the same colour as a sea in a storm. The first time his friend had used cocaine in his presence, Watson had been struck by how dilated his pupils became, privately exhilarated at how _heady_ he looked and all other parts of him ashamed at such ideas toward the man who had quickly been becoming his closest friend.

Such a bedraggled look on that striking face no longer felt shameful; to know _he_ had put it there... Watson surged forward to the retreating Holmes and pulled him into a searing kiss, all the better as Holmes realised what to do with his tongue, so greedy and glorious and hot that he was hardly capable of undoing the man’s collar.

Once undone, the two inches of extra flesh that were exposed to the cool spring air hardly warranted the fervour with which he fell upon it to kiss and bite, nor was it even by objective standards of such matters a particularly amorous area of the body to expose, yet he could not stop. This time, he did allow himself to moan, the sound coinciding with the moment they crossed the threshold to the bedroom. The sound seemed to inspire something in Holmes beyond the smouldering passion deep inside their bodies. Where previously his own hands had been wrapped around Watson’s neck, here he disentangled himself and reached to slam the door firmly shut before pressing him up against it and plundering his mouth as his own fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons.

“Oh God,” Watson breathed out raggedly as cold fingers touched his skin and then wrapped around the waistband of his trousers.

“Hmmm... Watson?” Holmes did not even look up from where he was biting his collar bone oh damn him. It was a mighty task to swallow and inhale.

“I’ll not have our first time at this be anywhere but on a proper bed.” He bit his tongue and withheld saying that it was the least he wanted to give the man, certain it was too intimate, too emotional, too illogical. Holmes stepped back, timing his step precisely with unbuttoning Watson’s trousers and allowing them to fall to the floor then make a sweeping motion in the direction of the bed: an invitation.

At the first step forward, he realised he still had his shoes on and quickly toed them off, blushing with embarrassment. Much to their mutual surprise, Holmes actually laughed, “How far down does that go, hmm?” and they met one another together and roles reversed as Holmes backed _him_ onto the bed. He could not help another moan as chilled hands divested him of his smallclothes and pushed him to lie down.

“Do you intend to remain dressed all night, Holmes?” he gasped, gratified at how dark his eyes were and the contrast of his pale skin to the flush of his moth and tips of his ears. “Divest yourself of all those clothes this instant and bugger me, will you?” he tried to ask as nonchalantly as possible given his rather aroused state- thank heavens his trousers lay several feet away, for he had already ruined too many pairs in the course of his friendship with Sherlock Holmes already.

Another kiss. “But of course, my dear fellow,” punctuated with soft, tender drops of his mouth up and down his skin. Just when he did not think he could become any more aroused, Holmes stood straight and shucked his own garments off.

The ‘oh’ he uttered was long and low, sounding embarrassingly reminiscent of a keening animal; nakedness on both their sides reminded him suddenly and horribly of the scars dug deep into his body. They and all the other lingering effects of army service made his insides curdle, and where mere minutes go he had felt himself blooming like a flower he now desired nothing more than to curl in on himself.

A strong hand with thin fingers that held firm griped his chin. “Don’t.”

The streetlamps and moonlight through the window made Holmes even more beautiful: a veritable masterpiece in its own right during the day, in the dead of night he looked something holy. Watson felt all the air leave his lungs, “”My God,” the words had no power to reach above a whisper but he knew- _knew_ \- Holmes could hear them with perfect clarity. “You’re beautiful.”

Pure joy bloomed on the angel’s face and he smiled in a way that could have sustained Watson forever, “That is a useless statement, my dear fellow, but a sentiment I whole-heartedly return. I’m going to proceed now, if you believe you are quite ready.”

Watson nodded. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back with Holmes heavy atop him, kissing with the whole lengths of their naked bodies pressed together. “Tell me what you want,” Holmes growled against his neck.

The words brought to mind those grey eyes dark with lust and he shuddered beneath him. “I want- I want you to take me,” he gasped, writhing under all the kisses received and given. He waited until Holmes tilted his head back to meet his lidded gaze before adding: “On my back. I want... to see you. Want to- I want to watch you.”

“Your wish is my command,” Holmes replied. Watson had just enough time to think that this man may be an angel but he was nothing like a genie and that he hoped he had an accurate catalogue of where he kept the Vaseline amongst his possessions, for it would be a humiliating injury to explain if he picked up the wrong jar, and then he thought no more for the rest of the evening.

 

***

 

For all their companionship that night expanded considerably, little if anything actually changed between them on a practical, day-to-day level. The two of them were still lodgers and went on cases, or not and snapped at one another when the boredom and stagnation encroached. Neither of them even made any attempt to curtail their habits and vices. They were still simply Holmes and Watson, except now they often retired to bed earlier, and to the same room; the time it took for Holmes to begin to feel stagnant after a case increased to the same amount of time it took for them to seep together at least twice. Nothing changed and bar the knowing looks Mrs Hudson levelled at them over the breakfast table the following morning and the ribbing Holmes assured him Mycroft would inevitably give the next time they met, it appeared nothing was going to.

Watson could not have been gladder for it.

 

***

 

“Absolutely not.”

“Watson!” Holmes as very nearly boggling in his aggrievement and from observing it looked to be an act of endurance not to start out of his armchair. “This could be of vital import to a case!”

“A hypothetical case. No.”

“Watson!”

“Holmes. I said no and- if you may excuse me the liberty- I believe this to be the most ridiculous idea you have ever had.”

“That is because _you_ are-“

He held up one finger, “Norbury.”

Holmes fell silent, though not without several muttered curses in a myriad of different languages. For some time there was no sound within their rooms but the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock as it nibbled away at the hours and the cloud of blue smoke hanging above their heads grew steadily. Holmes sulked on until he, as always in such situations as this, determined time enough had passed for Watson to forget his exasperation. “Can you honestly assure me that you have never broached the idea yourself?”

“It would never have occurred to me if you did not mention it!” Watson railed, as expected of him, fingers clutching the arm of the divan tight enough he feared the fabric may rip.

In perhaps the biggest insult to a vexed man- the more so for the deliberateness he knew was behind the act- Holmes coolly raised an eyebrow and exhaled am mouthful of smoke. _Liar._ Had he not been a proud soldier to serve in her Majesty’s forces, John Hamish Watson would have growled.

Upon seeing this, Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes, leaning forward to extinguish his pipe and eyes never leaving his. For all the coldness the man loves, his gaze always burned. “I must confess I fail to understand you reluctance in this matter, Watson. We are both of the agreement that we have considered this before; I know that whilst you are satisfied with our... current relations you are eager to... explore them- an opportunity I have the means and ability to give you. I want to please you, in this as in all other things, and it would provide me valuable data should such a thing ever become relevant to case. Why should we _not_?”

The man raised very good arguments, drat. Not to mention, the admittance of wanting to please him mollified Watson slightly. There would be no more danger than there would have been on any of the other countless evenings his fellow-lodger has spent in such a manner and... well, if any man in England would ever need to know what it was like to have sexual intercourse whilst under the influence of cocaine, it was going to be Holmes, wasn’t it?

Watson sighed and tore his gaze away to stare into the fire instead. In the corner of his vison, he watched shapes and shadows flinch as Holmes leaned yet further forward and took hold of his hand. “Is it the danger to my person you fear, dear Boswell? Solutions are endless- we shall insure the weather is clement so hansoms are readily available should you need to hail one for a doctor. Your medical bag can be within easy reach and re-stocked the day before. We can wait until Easter Sunday, when the chances of a patient needing you will decrease, thus preventing you from leaving me alone. I can contact Mycroft and inform him of the itinerary so that he may be ready on standby-“

Despite himself, Watson laughed, “Christ above, no. Just...” He turned his hand over palm to palm and exhaled in relief when Holmes reciprocated the touch. “-I’m a _doctor_ , Holmes. I think of nothing but what could go wrong. And... I do not want to hurt you whilst you are like that.”

“I know,” the words were spoken softly and he relaxed a little more. Holmes shifted, so as to better observe his face. “However, if I may be so pertinent as to point out- we face innumerable dangers on each case, or even simply going out onto the street one risks being knocked down by a cab. Or, the first night when we began all this, one of us may have tripped over the clothes we left on the floor.”

More laughter, “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point and I’ve concurred, have I not?”

“Indeed you have.” Even closer, close until Watson thought perhaps the man intended to take him right then and there. “Should I ever want you to stop- nay, not just in _this,_ but at any time during our... evenings, I shall say the word ‘carbuncle.’ And I expect the same of you, my dear. I do not endeavour to build a relationship in which either of us are left miserable.”

“How could I ever be miserable with you, Holmes? That is a mystery even your mind would not crack.”

He sat back with a smile, “Likewise, dear fellow.”

 

***

 

Watson, at least, did not have the indecency to say ‘I told you so’. At least, not outloud.

The initial stages of the experiment began well; Holmes- when not in the depths of a brown study or trying to hold off atrophy- under the influence of his seven percent solution was quickly established to be a wild, attentive, _interested_ lover who proved his desire in the way he scooped Watson up from the settee and carried him up the stairs to Watson’s own bedroom just because Watson dared say he couldn’t.

What followed next Watson could only describe in later (private) accounts as completely, thorough _ravishing_ on Holmes’ part- never, by neither man nor woman nor himself had he been so thoroughly worshipped and so investigated. If he had thought that being peered at akin to one of his scientific deductions would be off-putting for matters of the bedroom, hr was proven that the opposite was in fact true. Rather, much as it had the first time, bein the sole object of that razor-sharp focus was electrifying. To know that the man atop him knew nearly everything he had ever tried to hide and was making no move to get off- the love and unintentional pun made him lose his breath and for an immeasurable amount of time he knew nothing but Holmes’ mouth on various parts of his anatomy until it occurred to him that with the man’s hands so occupied with his posterior, he was running the risk of neglecting himself in the midst of the boiling hot storm between them.

Reaching down, Watson was rather shocked to find his erection was only at half-mast as it were, despite the attentions and kisses still being littered over the plains of his body like rose petals. A thrust on Holmes’ part had the unintentional side effect of making his grip more firm and drawing a groan from the swollen mouth. Watson let go at once, “Holmes?” No answer. “ _Holmes_ ,” he put more of an order behind the name the second time and sat up so as to dislodge the bite to his collar bone- _that will mark later_. It was at this point that, shifting so on the bed, he became aware of a damp patch already there and frowned- as agreeable as the night has been thus far, the culprit was not him.

Another groan, then Holmes slid off him and lay upon the mattress instead, head buried in his neck and right hand still hand loosely over the scar of his shoulder. “I fear I have already spent all in my purse tonight, Watson.”

 _It did not seem that way five minutes ago_ but he bit his tongue, drew the bedsheets over his own lower half to conceal I as best he could and turned so as to face his friend better, “And what is the conclusion of this experiment?”    

“Like a mediocre sneeze,” the pout on his face was such Watson could not hold back his laughter- the expression and the description simply too funny. Holmes, in turn, swore at him profusely and fondly, curling into a ball and trapping his hands between his knees, “Spent for the night, Watson, but dear _God_ -“ unbidden, he began to rock back and forth slightly, a low keening sound escaping his throat here and there and the pretty pink flush still painted over his skin. With a little hum, Watson allowed himself the liberty of stroking his hair back, curls dam with sweat from their exertions.

“Completely spent with no hope at all?” he asked, voice lilting teasingly. “Must I take offense at how you underestimate me so?”

“What would happen to me if you did?” drooping his eyes were, what he could see of those grey pebbles were overly-bright and dancing with want, his thin lips melting upwards into a slight smile softer than any he would give whilst sober.

“For one thing I would prove you wrong,” he felt himself return the smile, wondering if it looked as loving as he felt and proceeded to manoeuvre his hands between the tangle of Holmes’ limbs and take up again what he had recently let go.

Holmes’ breath caught on the inhale, “How, pray tell, would you do that?”

“Like this,” he growled, the last word cut off as he planted another bruising kiss upon that abused mouth and his hand beginning to move in time with the stuttering, divine moans and thrusts escaping the sated body. Every moan Holmes made Watson swallowed. Every praise and utterance of his Christian name he held onto as he would a lifeline and swore never to forget. The end result of his ministrations was less than impressive compared to some of the states the pair of them had reached before, but the groan with which Holmes said his name as he spilled into his hand like water was perfection and just for him.

You did prove me wrong after all,” the words were sleepy and the man speaking them nearly completely unconscious, flowing into one another like a river on its way to the sea. “You keep doing that.”

“I endeavour to remain so,” it seemed that he had said the right thing, if the delighted look of content in Holmes’ eyes was any indication. John leaned forward and kissed him for the umpteenth time that evening. “Now, however, if you will excuse me I will go and find ome supplies so as to clean up.”

Holmes was asleep by the time the kiss ended. Watson shook his head fondly, then gathered the man’s dressing gown about his shoulders and crept hurriedly down the stairs to the bathroom to take matters into his own hands. _Bloody incorrigible man_ , though he was not obtuse to the irony that he thought such things whilst tugging himself off to the scent of the man left behind on the fabric.

 

***

Two:

Whilst his errant companion was cursing whoever at Scotland Yard had thought to order German-made handcuffs, Watson was putting his not-informidable brain power to good use and looking for ways to make the best of what would later become known as the infamous ‘handcuff incident’. _How_ Holmes had ended up with one wrist locked in chains was a mystery he would not divulge even in the privacy of their own home, but Watson could only thank that the man had not thought it prudent to lock up his other hand as well. Oh, he saved face in front of Lestrade and the amassed constables (and the diamond thief frogmarched between the two sturdiest bobbies, wearing a second set of handcuffs) for sure, refusing Lestrade’s offer to realise him with an insistence that he had a particularly corrosive acid he wanted to test on the lock back at Baker Street and implying the Yard’s stupidity at how all the handcuffs locked using copies of the same key. Watson, thankfully, pulled him away into a hansom before he could throw any further insults- possibly the ease of the task was because of Holmes’ respect for him, or more likely due to how he had leaned over and whispered in his ear to ‘Shut up, Holmes! I’ll say ‘Norbury’ if I have to!’ but the intended result was achieved, in either fashion.

Holmes ‘harrumphed’ in a rather dramatic manner, settling back on the seat opposite and inspecting his manacled limb. With such concentration, the tip of his tongue poked out and his brow furrowed. At the speed the cabby was going, yellow gas lights illuminated his much-loved face in flickers and Watson shifted in his own seat and quickly removed his hat from his head to settle it in his lap.

“Holmes,” he began quietly, mindful of the driver sat not two foot above despite the unlikelihood of eavesdropping. “Do you for certain have a way of getting _out_ of those infernal things?”

With a devilish smirk and a theatrical flourish, he tossed something over the space separating them that Watson was hard-pressed to catch. Examining it as best he could in the low light, he realized it was the bar of carbolic soap Holmes had pilfered from his bag at breakfast that morning, with an impression of a small key made into one side. An unusually small key. One that could only fit a set of handcuffs. “Well done, Holmes!” the praise though often dismissed as gushing, made Holmes laugh.

“Thank you, my dear- though I must admit I could never have done it without you. It may also be of some interest to you that I have procured a resin that can cure in the open air and be ready for use within two to three hours depending upon the humidity of the room. Why- I could have a viable key made before either of us retire for bed.”

Watson met his gaze, mouth suddenly dry with anticipation. “One to two hours, you say?”

Holmes nodded, looking proud of himself.

“That is rather fortunate.” Handing the soap back, he deliberately allowed his touch to linger. “I find my shoulder protesting from our exertions today- not overly so, mind you, just enough to find stretching a bit of a pain. It would be a lot easier for what I had in mind if there were another way I might... restrain you.”

He could see his own desire reflected in the man across from him. “By God, Watson, yes- yes. A thousand times over yes!”

Watson made himself sit back in his seat with a concerted effort, any closer and he feared he could no longer retrain himself. Would it not for the fact a horse and cab were infinitely quicker, Holmes looked as if he were honestly considering jumping out and running back to Baker Street to begin the evening’s misadventure.

“When we get home, then, you shall pay the cabbie, giving me the chance to deter Mrs Hudson and head her off so you may go straight upstairs and begin to prepare this resin of yours. I will come up as soon as I have assured our revered landlady we’re no worse for wear and I will meet you in your bedroom.”

Holmes nodded. Watson smiled and said no more until the cab arrived and the other man moved to disembark. “Oh, and Holmes?” he waited until he craned round. “I believe _I_ will be on top tonight.”

Needless to say, an enjoyable evening was had by all, made better by the fact that the only consulting detective in the world now also had a skeleton key for handcuffs. The handcuffs were never returned to Scotland Yard. Lestrade’s questions were met with evasive answers and he, by no means an inadequate detective, judged by the look Holmes and Watson shared that he was better off remaining blissfully ignorant.

 

***

 

Three:

It had, for all intents and purposes, been a rather romantic evening. The latest case had been wrapped up neatly the previous afternoon and Watson had ensured Holmes had gone straight to bed after the trying past three weeks and he had woken the next morning in a good mood, greeting an equally joyful Watson whose ills sleep had also cured. After breakfast Holmes had ensconced himself in his chemistry set whilst his companion caught up on the pile of correspondence and detoured at ten to see a patient. Upon returning to their flat, he was met by not only lunch but a bashful lover, who regaled him with a monologue of the various types of resins and asked, hesitantly, if he would like a key to his bedroom just in case seeing as Holmes already had one to his? Watson had taken it from his hand with a kiss, sure that the noises on the staircases afterward were not rats as Mrs Hudson claimed but the woman herself, cooing at her tenants softly.

After lunch he had invited Holmes for a walk and they had gone arm in arm around London together and gone to dinner at Simpson’s. Conversation was varied and interesting and the liquor flowing freely- free enough, in fact, that on the ride home Holmes had no objection when he sat next to him rather than opposite and brushed their hands together whilst homes deduced the career and marital status of every pedestrian they passed.

Mrs Hudson was blessedly away that night and Watson wasted no time in propositioning him in such a lewd manner that he was sure the blush went right to the roots of his hair.

And at last came a knock. Soon followed by the bellows of Gregson and Lestrade, it took no consulting detective to understand there was a new game afoot and if it had not been for the way Holmes’ face lit up, Watson would have told the par to stop darkening their doorstep immediately and Holmes to put his tongue back where it was.

 

***

 

“When we get back to Baker Street,” Watson murmured in Holme’ ear as they waited for their quarry to finally sneak away from the dinner and into the parlour to crack the safe behind the Rembrandt, “Leave the disguise on, will you?”

His head snapped round so fast the crack was audible; in the glow of from the room Watson could see his lips glistening as his tongue darted out to wet them. Just as he was about to speak- to ascertain exactly what the itinerary for the evening’s entertainment was or to berate and wonder how he could think of such things in the midst of a thrilling denouement he would never know- Mr Bradshaw hurried through the door with a furtive look around and made a beeline for the painting.

“Aha!” Holmes hissed, sitting back in delight and waiting for the crook to find the mischievous note they had left in place of the last will and testament of the late duchess.

 

***

 

“Watson, _Watson_ dear fellow, I fear I am close-“ Holmes gasped above him, flushed and hot and sweating, eyes roaming just as much as his hands.

When he had the breath to inhale, Watson raked his own hands up and down the dark fabric of the frock coat that hung over Holmes’ bare shoulders, scratching and scrabbling and pulling him down as close as he could. “Then come,” he demanded hoarsely, his own release scant moments away. “Do it- do it when you’re inside me, please?”

Just when he thought his lover would become no more aroused, the question seemed to push him over the edge and he moaned, spilling out a litany of Watsons and Johns and pushing himself as deep as he would go. Watson’s hips bucked on instinct and his own cries joined that of his lover’s, though neither was in any state of mind to worry about the neighbours. Part of Holmes’ disguise as a layabout Dandy was examining the flora of the British countryside, lying about in fields and generally making nothing but a nuisance of himself. There was a gentle blue flower still tucked behind his ear and Watson reached his hand up to cup his cheek and stroke over his skin to brush it over the petals and bury in the man’s ebony hair, now tangled and wild curls in the disarray of lovemaking. In the midst of their bodies, Sherlock hit the deep place inside of him and Watson felt himself unravel with a cry.

 

***

 

“Mmm- had I known _that_ would have been your reaction, I would have gone under cover as a dandy a lot sooner,” Holmes chuckled as he passed him the cigarette. “Though I fail to understand what is so titillating about a silk cravat.”

“The man whose neck it adorned was a rather key factor in my lust,” Watson admitted, head lolling on Holmes’ shoulder and not bothering to take hold of the cigarette himself but simply inhale from where it still quivered in the younger man’s pale fingers. It quivered rather more after his lips came into contact with his lover’s skin.

“Stop that, dear fellow, for I cannot reciprocate the way you undoubtedly deserve after the exertions you have just put me through.”

He smirked, “Was that me or was that the case you have just solved single handedly?” Pressing closer under the covers was certainly not the press their naked bodies together, of course, just to stave off the winter chill.

Holmes’ arm tightened around him, “Rest assured, John, _that_ was all down to you.”

Watson smiled. In the dim room, he felt Holmes smile back. “So,” he continued after a while, “What other disguises do you have that I yet know nothing of?”

He took some time pondering the question. “Well,” began he at length. “I have recently acquired a very extravagant silk dress.”

 

***

 

Four:

Holmes was very cruel, after that night, not making any mention of the female garments he had hidden somewhere about the home; nor even making comment on Watson’s thorough search of the flat for the item in question the next morning. By contrast, Watson was as eager as anything. “Is it just the dress?” he asked. “Or the... undergarments as well?”

Despite the attractive blush that dusted over his cheeks, Holmes said nothing. So the silence continued as the weeks passed, until Watson finally had to put thought on the matter out of mind completely lest he go mad with desire.

Thus, when Holmes sent him to replenish his supply of tobacco two days before Watson’s birthday he thought nothing of it bar that his friend was a blackguard and a cad for sending him out in such horrid weather.

He returned dripping, soggy and miserably wet all over, cursing himself for going into the first place and not entirely convinced Holmes wouldn’t send him on a second trip tomorrow when he discovered the tobacco had become equally damp om the journey home.

 

Well, the best course of attack was a good and timely defence, so he proceeded himself up the seventeen stairs shouting for his fellow lodger to come and fetch his blasted tobacco. “If it is not to your liking then frankly: tough, Holmes, for I shall not leave these rooms again until my coat is dry as a one... Are you even listening to me? I went out as requested in this weather and your Stradivarius has more of your attention tha I do! Holmes, deuce you, are you listening to me at all? Holmes- oh.” It was a miracle he legs did not give way for there, draped daintily on the settee, with a parasol poised on one elegant shoulder was Holmes. In the dress.

“My God,” Watson breathed, knees weak and feeling almost as if he should kneel at the man’s side to worship him. The sigh surpassed even that of the Lord Almighty himself. H

Holmes tilted his head alluringly and smiled- had he put rouge on his lips as well? “Happy birthday, my dear fellow. How do you like your gift?”

Finding the power of speech took a long time. “I like it as much as I love you- I- may I-?” he waved as the expanse of frills and silk cascading from the slim, clinched-in waist and near moaned when Holmes nodded. Under his calloused fingers the fabrics were as smooth as water and he could not hold back the sound, nor another when Holmes shifted his legs in such a way as to slide the hem upwards and expose his pale skin. The man had even found some heeled ankle boots to compete the miracle.

“Of course you may,” a beguiling smirk. “Now that you have me, I am rather curious as to know what you will do with me.”

A thousand ideas sprang to mind, all more affectionate than the last. Eventually, he settled upon an act they had yet to partake in despite all of their long history together. “I,” Watson announced, “am going to worship you.” Without any hesitation, he went down as Holmes’ eyebrows went up, his mouth around Holmes’ cock soon clearing up the confusion. Despite the fire, Holmes was slightly chilled beneath him- presumably the latest fashions were not designed with a London winter in mind- but it only made the whole thing even better. It became a challenge he was determined to succeed at: ensuring there was not one inch of Holmes he had not warmed, sucked, kissed or licked in some way. Just when he thought perhaps the man would finish then and there buy the clenching of his thigh muscles he regained a modicum of his famous emotional control and tossed his head back with a scoff.

“Really, Watson, could you not do better than that?” His hair was combed out long enough it really did shake away from his eyes and the low-cut neckline of the bodice framed his collarbone and blushing chest in pure white lace that seemed to make the skin appear even pinker in the glow of the firelight. Though unshaved his long thin legs were open amidst the soft ruffles, evidently enjoying the feeling of the loose fabric. He had forgone a corset- sensibly so, in the doctor’s opinion- yet somehow had fashioned way to make it appear he wore one anyway and his streamlined waist juxtaposed to the floating material made Watson’s mouth practically water ad he pushed the layers higher to expose his hip bones.

“Apologies, my dear, how about this?” and proceeded to use his tongue.

“Oh!”

He began at the base and licked to the very tip and the man’s moan grey and lasted the whole time his tongue was in contact with the tender flesh. “Is that better, my dear man?”

“Very,” Holmes gasped, writhing where he sat. There was so much fabric at liberty with a woman’s garment that the settee was invisible; he looked to be sitting on a throne of his own making and when the thought occurred to him Watson took his mouth to the task once again. The whimper it resulted in was near inhuman. “Heavens above, Watson, you must stop that at once. I am- close,” Holmes had always been rather shy in his descriptions of their carnal relations, unwilling to wonder outside of the strictest vocabulary and a veritable prude at any suggestion of uncouth base matters. _He cannot even say the word come_ Watson thought fondly, running his tongue up the vein and then over the head and tasting the slickness there. _I am the first person to ever see him like this_ it was an honour that he treasured every minute of every day. _I plan to be the last_ , those powerful thighs clenched and Holmes fell back onto the cushions and skirts with a cry and Watson calmly swallowed everything the man had to give.

“You were right Holmes,” he said, almost conversationally when he caught his breath and sat up, wiping a hand over his mouth. “You _were_ close.” Any high society dame would have been scandalised to be do debauched as the man whose legs he sat between, his own nether regions throbbing harder.

“I am always right,” Holmes agreed, sounding as breathless as he looked, shifting where he sat. “Now lie back, if you it pleases you. It is high time you got a taste of your own medicine.”

A pang of concern went through him, even as he made rooms for Holmes to take his place and begin to undo the fastenings of his trousers. “I know this would be your first... Sherlock, you have no obligation to-“

“I shall do as I like,” he declared regally, adjusting the skirts with as much dignity as he could muster. “How hard can it be, anyway?”

Watson huffed a small chuckle, “Upon observing the evidence laid out before you, you may find it is _very_ hard.”

“Then,” Holmes kissed his mouth. “I shall” kissed his neck “endeavour” his nipple “to examine it” his abdomen “with as much” his thigh “scrutiny as I would” his groin “any other case” his- _oh_. Watson cursed in every language he knew. Inexpert in his ministrations he may have been, it appeared Sherlock Holmes possessed natural cock-sucking talent

 

 

***

 

Five:

When Watson, feeling rather inadequate and old the following winter as the chill brought his old wounds to life once again, suggested they make love on surfaces other than a bed or the settee, Holmes put his dedicated mind to the task. The catalyst for the request being that they had a rather limited amount of positions available to them in such locations that were not only satisfactory but also did not strain the bullet wound in his leg, it was a conundrum that occupied his attentions for several days, transforming what would have been Noël -inspired boredom into a content, thrumming languor. The festive season had the added benefit of Watson being away from the flat seeing to patients and so Holmes was able to try out various ideas and positions sans embarrassment. The table was a possibility, until he realised he would have to move his vials and chemicals and then it was quickly removed from the list of possibilities. Its chairs, however, inspired hope and led to a memorable Sunday morning for both parties. Watson himself took it upon himself to initiate a time or two in the bathroom and the bath and just before the New Year, Holmes toon on a case quite possibly for the sole reason that it was necessary for them to hide a tiger skin rug at Baker Street, though he would rather perish than admit to such a thing.

Anything outside of the confines of 221b- with the exception of an establishment of Turkish Baths Holmes knew catered for men of their inclinations- was out of the question, given that the two of them were now, technically, criminals. (They were far less fretful of this idea than they probably ought to have been.)

Although, in an unusual turn of events in an even stranger conversation, it came to light both of them harboured ideas of doing such acts in a church. Initially, there was a hope that this may actually be one such idea that would come to fruition- Mycroft owed him a small debt in exchange for destroying some rather controversial letters of a deputy minister to his valet and an undisturbed afternoon in a house of god was child’s play for the man behind the British government.

Unfortunately, on doing some early reconnaissance Holmes came to the conclusion that the two of them prostrate on would never fit on the width of a pew and there was really no point in trying to couple on the lectern and so the idea was banished to their deepest fantasies.

“A shame,” Watson mused that night. “I’d like to have seen you in your Sunday Best.”

The matter of the small debt owing on Mycroft’s behalf, however, was something to think on. (Though not at the same time as Watson was purring those words, heaven forbid.) Nestled in the valleys of Sherwood Forest, his elder brother owned a holiday cottage which- having been surely ascertained and assured the housekeeper would be gone before they arrived- the two of them soon set off for after Holmes _inadvertently_ brought the wrath of Scotland Yard upon himself yet again. Enduring Watson’s unhappy mutters about keeping his mouth shut for the duration of the journey as he hoodwinked the man into believing they were making for a paltry bolthole and another case was more than worth the look upon his face when Holmes revealed their true destination and demonstrated all the talents of his mouth.

Honey and other foodstuffs and preservatives entered the fray at some point during their vacationing fortnight, safe in the knowledge that they were not disgracing Mrs Hudson’s territory in such a way; they returned to London singing the praises of holidaying in the country ‘for one’s health’.

Upon the events of their stay becoming clear to him, Mycroft was less put out over the carnal use of his holiday cottage and more that they had not bothered to restock the pantry.

 

***

 

Plus One:

It did not take a consulting detective’s not-insignificant powers of deduction to realise that Watson found his inarticulation with regards to anything sexual endearing. Of course he had never dared broach the topic aloud, but when he had first been made aware of the fact (many moons ago now, back in the embryonic stage of their relationship) the look upon his face was akin to that sound which women made at the sight of infants and kittens. Being considered in any way precious, Holmes quickly discovered, though it was a new experience, he despised. Every time it occurred, that _look_ came over Watson's face again- that one of… melting, that Holmes deduce but could not understand. This, naturally, was a course of events that simply would not do- he was _the_ consulting detective, blast it, not a particularly soft kitten!

Thus, Holmes set himself to rectifying the problem. It required a trip to the markets of Holywell Street, for the reading material available there far surpassed that of the King’s Library within the Museum, but soon he was settled back in his armchair with his pipe and the dust jacket to _Pride and Prejudice_ hiding _The Sins Of The Cities Of The Plains_ so as to keep it a surprise for his dear Boswell.

 

***

He approached the subject with his usual tact.

“Watson, I am not dissatisfied with our lovemaking but tonight I wish to experiment.”

He had no tact.

With more care than the simple action warranted, his partner set his teacup down and regarded him cautiously, “Alright.”

Holmes had become privy to a treasure trove of new data since the change in their relations- the gaze lowered infinitesimally, the furrowed brow, the clenched fist upon the knee of the bad leg, curiosity of a soon-to-be expanded horizon tempered with the irrational belief that perhaps it was yet still due to some perceived shortfall on one’s own part.

Up until three years ago, he would have scoffed at such a torrent of emotions. And then he had met Watson. To say that he had fallen in love at their first meeting would be a trite lie of undue romanticism- they had simply been acquaintances and convenient strangers; Watson took the better part of six weeks to brook the topic of what he did for a living, and the better part of a tricky case for Holmes himself to view the man as anything more than a useful associate. Not until a long, long time later had his feelings towards the elder man begun to resemble anything like the love they would blossom into and for one simple reason: Watson had stayed. Too many men had seized upon the curiosity of his life and then found themselves ill-suited to it in the long-term, fleeing his company as quick as they had come and Holmes had established himself as unfeeling on every occasion because he refused to feel the pain each time. Mycroft would snort at such sentimentality, but the fact of the matter was that Watson had changed him- in more ways than one and for all he might disagree with one of his decisions he had never failed to be present whilst he made them.

Nor did Holmes allow himself to believe (foolishly) that this was an imbalanced relationship, or even strictly a transactional one: theirs was a meeting of minds. They were good for one another and had had the good fortune and time to discover this and thus they had stayed together. Becoming… intimate had been somewhat of an accident but nothing of an inconvenience. Yet, he now found himself beholden of the strongest belief that even _should_ Watson be an inconvenience, he would want him anyway. It was not an arrangement Holmes was at all dissatisfied with.

He put this idea of experimentation out on the table in the forthright manner he knew Watson appreciated best for such things as that related to their sexual relationship, “The next time we go to bed together, I wish to talk dirty to you.”

The smile that blossomed across the man’s face still held a hint of nervousness. Yet brought as much pleasure as mastering a new symphony on his violin.

 

***

 

The author’s work had proven itself invaluable reading for the task ahead and y the time dusk crept upon the sky that evening Holmes felt more than confident in his abilities- it was, after all, very much like wearing a disguise, was it not? With a smile so very fond at their memories of the use of disguises, he crept up behind Watson where the man stood at his desk frowning over a sheath of case notes and wrapped his arms round his waist and grazed his teeth along his ear. He knew of Watson's smile before he turned in his embrace and saw it in the dusty light of the oil lamps, one of those strong, calloused hands reaching to cup his cheek and draw their mouths closer together.

“Hello,” he murmured, lips moving sensually. Holmes could not chide his inner consciousness for resembling something out of a penny paperback romance.

In place of responding, he deftly twirled him away from the desk and began to walk him backwards into his bedroom, hands making quick work of all his dratted clothing.

“ _Oh!”_ Watson gasped in surprise as the draught from the closing door hit them and he tingled with pleasure- he was completely divested and naked before they had even crossed the threshold and Holmes was quick to follow suit. “Are you eager for me this evening, Holmes?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, hoping despite his tone of voice and the present circumstances Watson would be able to deduce the truth within him: he always was. Gentle hands belying the way in which he wanted to devour the man before him, he pushed him back onto the bed, rid himself of the last articles of clothing and made his way up the bed kissing from toe to top.

Kissing his lips once, he pitched his voice low in a way he knew was deigned ‘sultry’, giving his hands free reign to explore all that he could reach as he shifted his knees to one wither side of Watson’s hips. “Never is there a time when I am not thinking of you. Thinking of- _fucking_ you. And frigging you. Having you in every way imaginable. I want you… I want you on your knees and gamahuching me until I have c-ome no less than three times and then- what’s wrong?”

Immediately, he realised where he had pinned the man’s arms above his head and drew back. The tremors shaking his body were not those of desire, or lust, but those borne of fear.

“No,” Watson whispered, eyes unseeing. “No, no, no, no, no, no.”

Some dark memory was flooding up into his eyes and Holmes was glad he had stopped, though now he was unsure of what to do next, “Watson?” Should he indeed have stopped at all? Mayhaps Watson was simply playing the act along with him, after all the man had not yet said-

“Carbuncle.” Watson sobbed. “Carbuncle! Carbuncle!” Though garbled around snot and tears, the increase of volume made it audible, even after the first repetition. _He’s afraid_ the realisation hit and Holmes went cold. _He is afraid I will ignore him_. “Carbuncle” Watson repeated until the words were drowned in bile.

Upon later flections and with the benefit of much hindsight, Holmes determined that all the above took place within a mere two seconds, no more than three, and he was frozen in place out of a mounting sense of horror for even less than that. Such pause was enough, however, for his lover to begin trembling anew and curl up into a ball expecting the worst. The most prudent course of action was to get off of the man at once, rolling to the side as soon as the thought occurred to him and heedless of the spreading wetness leeching into the linen. “Watson…”

The man covered his head with his hands, “No, no, please please I’m sorry, carbuncle.” Holmes did not allow himself to deduce if he was addressing the past or the present. He was scared to know the answer and scared to know what horror could haunt a man as stalwart and strong as his Boswell.

“John” –ah, no, that was the crux, wasn’t it? Much how Watson berated him for being the same as any other man, so too was it vice versa. They were not invulnerable or immortal or infallible- they were just two men and life could hurt them too. “John,” he said, pulling a blanket over his shoulders and crouching next to the bed. “John, it’s just me. it’s just your Sherlock, I won’t hurt you. I just… I need to know how to help you.”

“Touch me,” came the gasp in the throes of tears.

He paused again- damn him- unsure if he was chocked more by the crying or the command, surely _that_ was not going to prove an effective solution given all that had just happened? But surely he could trust the man to know his own mind?

“Need to see-“ John amended, obviously having noticed his puzzlement. “Prove you’re not- that they’re not-“ he blanched, eyes darting round the room until they fell again to the man at his bedside. “They’re not here?”

Holmes avoided the creaky floorboards and any additional noise as best he could as he settled on the floor, wondering if he should reach for the waste basket then deciding whatever happened the sheets were already ruined and instead tentatively slid one hand under the blanket to grasp John’s and the other up to stroke his hair. “No one but us, my dear. Is there anything else you need of me?”

“Not right now,” it seemed he spoke the truth, as his breathing had evened out and he relaxed the tiniest of amounts into the pillow even as his eyes began to cloud over with embarrassment in place of fear. “I won’t be moving for quite some time, I’m afraid, and when I do it will be for a bath- though of course I’ll change your sheets for you first. If there’s- there’s things I haven’t told you and, and- I know you have letters to catch up on, or what about that experiment you showed me earlier? There’s probably a thousand things you could be doing if you want-“

“What I want is to stay right where I am,” another infernal pause and then he added; “And there is nothing you could tell me that would make me feel otherwise or respect you any less.” At Watson’s incredulous look, he raised his eyebrows in possibly the mildest tête-à-tête the two of them had ever engaged in.

Holmes won- of course- and a deliriously happy look spread over Watson’s face- were it not for the stains on the bedclothes he was huddled under revealing the events of the past ten minutes there would be nothing indicating the emotional inner turmoil and Holmes instinctively grasped his hand tighter, wondering if they perhaps ought to say ‘I love you’ in the wake of all this.

Watson smiled wider and squeezed his fingers in return- no need, then. _Of course not, it is obvious we love each other_. “Stay there then, if it pleases you,” Watson replied with an air of nonchalance. “Though if you end up with splinters of frost bite in unfortunate places, I shan’t lift a finger to help you.” _Yes, I love this man_.

 


End file.
